


safe to shore

by oryx



Category: Kamen Rider Kabuto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Identity Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 19:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17834354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: Tsurugi sets his sights on a different best friend.





	safe to shore

**Author's Note:**

> god i've been working on this forever it seems. my years long desire to fix the lovable 12-car pileup that is kabuto is finally sated, to some degree. now i can be at peace.

  
While generally he believes with all his heart in upholding the honorable Discabil family code, there are times, he thinks, when a man must make exceptions.  
   
Particularly when it comes to line 146, which states that it is “uncouth for a Discabil to associate more than necessary with those below their station.” This rule is notoriously difficult to follow – mostly because, in his twenty years of life, he has yet to meet any other nobility. But  _also_  because he has always believed the lower class to be an interesting lot, full of unique if not somewhat limited perspectives, and thus decided at a young age that he, Kamishiro Tsurugi, would become the man who would stand at the top of befriending the peasantry.  
   
Which, in short, is why he simply cannot ignore the sullen girl who works at the Bistro la Salle.  
   
It is not just her cooking (though it is, of course, exemplary). That was only what first piqued his interest. No, it is that he gets from her an impression of deep isolation and hidden sorrow, and as the man who will someday replace the gods, who better than he to be a stalwart companion? To see her through the darkness of solitude and into the light? It is his responsibility as one of the privileged.  
   
Yes. He has decided that he will do it. He will become this girl’s friend no matter the obstacles in his path.  
   
Up to and including washing dishes.  
   
“You’re… not very good at this, are you?”  
   
He glances up to find Kusakabe staring at him blankly. He’s up to his elbows in suds, his hands beginning to feel rather pruney within their rubber gloves as he scrubs away, which he’s taken to be a sign of great success in regards to the task at hand.  
   
“Nonsense,” he says with a frown. “There is nothing in this world that I am not skilled at. Everything I set out to do, I accomplish with ease and aplomb.”  
   
“Except for dish washing, apparently,” Kusakabe says, deadpan.  
   
His frown deepens as he removes the plate from the suds and sees that it is, in fact, still rather unclean.  
   
Kusakabe sighs. “Give me that,” she says, tugging on her own pair of gloves and grabbing it from him before he can protest any further. He watches her skilled technique with wide eyes.  
   
“Magnifique!” he tells her. “Kusakabe, you are truly unmatched at this!”  
   
She gives him a strange sidelong look. “It’s just dishes,” she mutters. “You’re the weird one here.”  
   
Still, he can’t help but notice her lips twitch into a barely-there smile, in the moment before her hair falls like a curtain across her face and hides it.  
   
  
   
  
   
Fighting as Sasword has a rhythm to it, he’s found. Five, six, seven, eight. Like the steps he used to learn in dance class, the movements of the Viennese waltz, his sister beaming at him as he mastered each one.  
   
He feels that same satisfaction now, too, the rhythm playing in his head as the Clock Up ends and he watches the Worms die one by one, wreathed in green flame that burns away every trace.  
   
  
   
  
   
He hears from the owner of the bistro (who lowers her voice as she says it with a conspiratorial wink) that Kusakabe is in fact a passionate and talented artist, prone to drawing fanciful scenes of fairy tales and true love, and thus is struck by a brilliant idea.  
   
“To your… estate?” Kusakabe echoes. She’s peering out at him through the window into the bistro’s kitchen.  
   
“Indeed! The Kamishiro family estate has devoted the entire west wing to a gallery celebrating great  _classique_  works of art. You should come by, and I personally will give you a guided tour!”  
   
Something flickers across her face that might be interest. She hesitates for a moment before asking: “What… kind of art, exactly?”  
   
“Oh, many kinds. Several sublime paintings from the Romantic and Rococo periods, and my late mother was fond of Art Nouveau, so we acquired quite a few excellent pieces in that style, too. There is one in particular that is the jewel of the collection, if you ask me –  _Titania_ , by a great British painter named John Simmons.”  
   
At that, Kusakabe’s head snaps up to stare at him. Her knife, about to chop a scallion for the dish she’s making, hovers just above the cutting board. “That’s… You really have that one?”  
   
Tsurugi grins broadly in return.  
   
  
   
  
   
Maybe, possibly, he has Jiiya rearrange the paintings in the gallery so that  _Titania_  is the last you see when you walk through the corridors. For dramatic effect, of course. (A Discabil must never be boring.)  
   
Kusakabe looks mildly uncomfortable as Jiiya shows her into the west wing, holding her bag tightly and fidgeting with it, and Tsurugi rushes to offer her some of the refreshments that have been set out – teacakes and cucumber sandwiches and lavender macarons arranged on a gleaming silver serving tower. He leans in and smiles at her encouragingly until she takes one.  
   
“I am deeply happy to have a guest such as yourself in my home,” he says, nodding. “It has been too long since anyone came to view our artworks.”  
   
Kusakabe’s eyes scan the room, the vaulted ceilings and marble floors, thoughtful as she nibbles on her macaron. “I guess… you really are rich,” she says. “Kinda thought you were just faking it or something.”  
   
“Faking it?” Tsurugi echoes. He’s not sure he understands what she means. Instead of elaborating, she’s turning away and walking across the room to stare up at the nearest painting.  
   
“What’s this one?” she asks.  
   
“Ah,  _The Stolen Kiss_! Perhaps Jean-Honore Fragonard’s most well-known piece. Painted in the late 1780s. The subtle colours and emotion… The delicate, opulent details… Truly lovely.”  
   
“So you just… know all of this by heart?”  
   
“Of course. I have been schooled extensively in the fine arts, which obviously includes lessons in art history. Come – I’ll show you the rest.”  
   
He leads her through the halls, stopping in front of each piece to give a few details about its creation. She seems to relax visibly as this goes on, nodding and ‘hmm’ing where it’s appropriate, occasionally pausing to rake her eyes over the painting long after he’s run out of facts, like she’s been caught up in the sworls of colour.  
   
“And this,” he announces, “is  _Titania_.”  
   
Kusakabe stops. Her eyes widen as she looks up at it – at the soft scene of the queen of the fairies, draped in a kind of translucent fabric, standing in the sunlight amid the flowers and low-growing ivy.  
   
“I heard from the bistro owner that you like fairies very much,” Tsurugi says, and the reverent moment ends as quick as it came, Kusakabe making a ‘tch’ noise as she glances over at him.  
   
“She’s way too gossipy,” she mutters.  
   
“I must know why,” he insists. “Why fairies are so interesting to you, I mean.” His sister had always loved this one, too.  _Wouldn’t it be nice_ , she’d said to him once, sighing wistfully, her hand warm on the crown of his head.  _To have beautiful wings like Titania –_    
   
Kusakabe shrugs. “I dunno. Just that… They’re pretty, and they have magic.” She seems to debate with herself for a time before adding: “But they’re also small enough to hide away wherever they want. If they don’t want humans to see them… they won’t.”  
   
Tsurugi frowns. He crosses his arms and taps a finger against his forearm, contemplative. “And that is… a good thing?”  
   
Kusakabe simply looks at him, then, deep and piercing, and he can’t help but think that there’s a hint of disappointment there.  
   
“Someone like you,” she says finally, turning back to the painting, “wouldn’t understand at all.”  
   
  
   
  
   
Some nights he dreams that he is standing in that field of roses, staring down at his sister’s limp body, at her hair like a dark pool around her head, but when he puts a hand on her shoulder and turns her over the corpse is now himself, blood staining his good suit, eyes open and glassy as they stare lifeless at the sky. The body is unmistakably him.  
   
_Then, who am I?_  he thinks, and that is when he wakes in a cold sweat, pulse racing, the blankets twisted like ropes around him, and it always takes him a moment to remember the answer to that question.  
   
  
   
  
   
Tendou slams a hand on the tabletop, rattling Tsurugi’s plate and making his glass jump, spilling water on the embroidered placemat that Jiiya has set out for him.  
   
“What are your intentions towards Hiyori?” he asks coolly, a subtle tension in the set of his jaw.  
   
Tsurugi tilts his head to the side. “Intentions?”  
   
“H-how dare you,” Jiiya says, puffing up. “The young master would never have impure thoughts towards a lady! He is a man of noble standing!”  
   
Tendou’s expression softens as he looks over at him. “I understand your position, but I can’t overlook someone making such obvious attempts to flirt with Hiyori without knowing if they’re serious. She is very important to me, you know. I have to make sure others have her best interests in mind as well.”  
   
“I am not flirting,” Tsurugi says, taken aback. “I simply wish for Kusakabe to be my  _best friend_.”  
   
Tendou arches an eyebrow as he stares down at him.  
   
“She is very intriguing,” Tsurugi continues. “I feel like I must find a way to make her truly smile.” He nods to himself. “It is now my secondary mission, after defeating every single Worm.”  
   
“See?” Jiiya says quickly. “Surely you have no objections to the young master making a friend.”  
   
Tendou purses his lips. “I… suppose not.” He levels a finger in Tsurugi’s face. “Even so, if you make her cry I won’t forgive you.”  
   
He stalks back into the kitchen without another word, leaving Jiiya spluttering in protest that “of course the young master wouldn’t” and Tsurugi staring after him thoughtfully.  
   
It’s interesting, he thinks, how Tendou treats Kusakabe much like he treats that younger sister of his.  
   
  
   
  
   
He convinces Hiyori to join him for tea in the gardens on a fine Sunday afternoon, inquiring first around the bistro to find out what her tastes might be. (Kagami had simply looked somewhat bewildered at the question, while Tendou had immediately listed off her five favorite blends in descending order, and that she usually takes it plain, perhaps with a spot of honey.)  
   
(He’d specified rose tea as her number three favorite, but Tsurugi has elected to ignore that one.)  
   
Hiyori sips at her choice of a fine chamomile across the table, eyes lowered and shoulders hunched, looking rather small in her patio chair.  
   
“Is there… some reason you keep inviting me over?” she asks. “Like. Do you want something from me?”  
   
Tsurugi nods enthusiastically. “But of course! I want to be your  _best friend_.”  
   
Her brow knits together. “Why?”  
   
“Because I – ”  
   
He stops.  
   
Because I am a Discabil, and it is my responsibility to treat the lower class with kindness, is what he was about to say, but suddenly he wonders if that is truly the reason. His mouth moves tonelessly as he tries to put this odd feeling into words.  
   
“Are you… lonely, maybe?”  
   
He stares at her, his own cup of tea halfway to his lips. “Lone…ly?”  
   
Hiyori shrugs. “I mean. I heard. About your sister. And your parents are gone, too, right? So it must be kind of sad, living here in this big house with only your butler. He seems nice and all, but. There’s probably… something missing. Isn’t there?”  
   
Tsurugi’s mouth feels oddly dry.  
   
“I think I get it,” Hiyori continues. She fiddles with the saucer beneath her teacup, turning it back and forth seemingly without noticing she’s doing it. “You heard about my parents being dead, and thought we were – in the same boat or whatever? But I’m not…” She trails off and shakes her head. “I’m no good at relating to people. Sorry. You should find someone else to be your friend.  
   
“Thanks for the tea,” she mutters, hoisting her bag on to her shoulder and getting to her feet –  
   
“Hiyorin, that was wonderful!” he exclaims, and she freezes in place.  
   
“…Hiyorin?”  
   
“That you would speak up against me like this… that is the sign of a true friend.” He smiles at her brightly. “Jiiya said this: ‘Honesty and communication are the hallmarks of any lasting relationship.’ I’ve been told that some people are put off by my commanding nobleman’s demeanor, but not you! You are very brave indeed.”  
   
Hiyori blinks. Slowly, he can see a bit of her guardedness fading away, her grip around the strap of her bag loosening.  
   
“Brave?” she echoes. “I’m not…”  
   
“Bravery comes in many forms,” Tsurugi says. “Not only do you have the courage to oppose me, but it must be very hard, having no one in this world. A terrible tragedy. But you have persevered!”  
   
Hiyori swallows visibly. “That’s – I haven’t done anything special.”  
   
But even so, after a moment of hesitation she lowers herself back down into her chair, the tension in her shoulders lessening little by little as Tsurugi smiles and offers her another cup of tea.  
   
  
   
  
   
He feels the Scorpion Worm’s presence more often, now, in the heat of battle, its power pressing in around the edges of his thoughts.  
   
It’s taunting him, he knows. It’s waiting for him to come face it down, holding its crimes over his head like a lure and yet refusing to show itself, the coward. His teeth clenched behind Sasword’s mask, he impales his sword through the carapace of the Worm in front of him with cracking, shattering force, listening to its ungodly shriek and imagining that it were the Scorpion instead.  
   
  
   
  
   
There is a certain hill that that they often pass on their route back to the mansion – a place that overlooks a sizeable bit of the city, and yet doesn’t seem to be known to many, only the occasional group of children playing there. Today it is deserted save for a single person, and Tsurugi squints through the window of the limousine, eyes widening a moment later as he recognizes the hair, the glasses.  
   
“Jiiya, stop the car,” he commands, and Jiiya complies instantly, turning to ask him what the trouble is, but Tsurugi is already opening the door and making his way across the street heedless of the traffic to reach the bottom of the hill.  
   
“Hiyorin,” he calls, waving excitedly as he climbs up the slope, and she glances up from her sketchbook to look at him with wide eyes.  
   
“Kamishiro-kun,” she says, and then – she smiles. Just a slight curve of her mouth, but he feels a sense of triumph overwhelm him nonetheless.  
   
“What are you drawing?” he asks, taking a seat next to her on the grass, wrapping his arms around his knees as he peers over. For a moment she tries to cover her work with her hand before stopping and letting it fall away, hesitantly sliding her sketchpad closer so he can see. It’s the first he’s seen one of these fairy drawings of hers, and he’s struck by the nostalgic feeling it gives him. Like something he saw in a picture book a long, long time ago. The way the creature with silvery wings is reaching for the hand of the other, whose green wings seem to be clipped, creates for a rather sweetly sad image.  
   
“You are a genuine talent,” Tsurugi says with a sage nod. “Such simple yet lovely colours and emotions! And I am a man who knows art.”  
   
Hiyori gives him a flatly amused look. “You don’t have to give me so many compliments, you know. It’s… just a hobby, honestly. Not like it’s my life’s goal or anything.”  
   
Tsurugi tilts his head to the side. “Do you have one, then? A life’s goal?”  
   
“I… yeah, I guess.” She pulls the sketchbook back into her lap and focuses on adding a bit of shading to the fairy’s hand, worrying her lip before continuing: “I’d kind of like to be a chef. In the actual sense. Not just cooking someone else’s menu.”  
   
Before he can react to that she is glancing at him sidelong, asking: “What about you? Do you have something you want to do?”  
   
“Obviously,” he says. “I have several goals at the moment! I am currently trying to restore the fortune of the Discabil line. And of course I am tasked with the vital mission of destroying every single – ”  
   
“Hiyori!”  
   
They both pause, glancing down the hill to find Tendou staring up at them from the sidewalk below, a bag of groceries hanging from one arm. His face is impassive, carefully so, as if he were keeping something purposefully shuttered away.  
   
“I recommended a nicer spot to you, didn’t I?” he calls. “And yet you’re still coming here to draw.”  
   
“I like it here,” Hiyori calls back in reply. “What’s it matter to you, anyway?”  
   
Tendou sighs. He hikes his way up the hill to stand over them, looking down at Tsurugi coolly. “You,” he says. “Come talk with me for a moment.”  
   
He leads Tsurugi to the other side of the hilltop, standing in the immediate shade of the massive old oak that grows there. He sets his bag of groceries down in the grass and folds his arms across his chest as he turns to study him.  
   
“I think,” he says, “it would be better for everyone if you stopped hanging around Hiyori.”  
   
Tsurugi frowns. “I already informed you that I am not ‘flirting’ with her – ”  
   
“That isn’t the issue. The two of you simply don’t match.” He arches an eyebrow. “Do you really have anything in common with her? She’s struggled her whole life to make her dreams come true. She’s modest, hardworking. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. This ‘friendship’ is doomed for failure, so it would be best if you just gave up now.”  
   
Tsurugi draws himself up to full height as he glowers back at Tendou. “If Hiyorin tells me to go away, I will. But she won’t, because I’ll have you know I am unparalleled at being a good friend! Even considering the difference in our station.”  
   
Tendou stares at him for a long moment.  
   
“You really have no idea, do you?” he says finally. “I don’t always trust Kagami’s observational skills, but he was right. You’re entirely oblivious. You don’t know how horribly this could all end – ”  
   
“Tendou, stop it.”  
   
Hiyori has appeared behind them, hand resting on the trunk of the tree, fingers curled against it, a tense, subtle anger in her face.  
   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “But I wish you would stop doing this. Acting like you know what’s best for me. I’ll spend time with whoever I want to.”  
   
She’s grabbing Tsurugi by the wrist and marching him away a moment later, not stopping until they’re all the way down the hill and around the next corner. The annoyed set to her shoulders relaxes, just a bit, and she turns back to give him a subtly apologetic look.  
   
“You can just ignore it,” she mutters. “Whatever he said to you. You… are totally weird. But. I don’t mind it. You hanging around me.” A pause. “It’s… kind of fun, actually. Being with you.”  
   
Tsurugi blinks. He can feel himself beaming. “You truly think so, Hiyorin? I feel much the same about being with you!”  
   
Hiyori’s lips twitch. “Yeah, I picked up on that much,” she says drily. “Come on. I’ll make you lunch back at the bistro.”  
   
She reaches once more for his hand.  
   
  
   
  
   
He wonders, sometimes, about the hours he loses. When he wakes in his bedroom, or in the back of the car, and does not remember how he got there. He had been fighting, hadn’t he? And then there was anger, and then there was –  
   
“It’s nothing for you to worry about, Young Master,” Jiiya says gently, sitting attentive at his bedside. He’s smiling, but there’s something off about it. Something sad. “Your days are so busy. You have so many important responsibilities. It’s easy to doze off and forget.”  
   
Tsurugi nods. That makes sense. And yet, as Jiiya leaves the room to prepare him a cup of tea, his hands twist and un-twist the bedcovers in an anxious rhythm.  
   
He thinks he sees something strange out of the corner of his eye, and turns, alarm bells ringing in his mind, but there is nothing. Just his own reflection staring back at him from the floor-length mirror, wide-eyed and wan.  
   
“Nothing to worry about,” he echoes.  
   
  
   
  
   
“Y’know,” Hiyori says. Her back is turned to him as she methodically wipes down the table across from his. “Since I’ve been to your place, I guess it would be kinda rude… if I didn’t invite you to mine.”  
   
In an instant he’s sitting up straighter in his seat, pressing a hand to his heart. “You would grant me such an honor? Oh, I would be humbled to visit your home!”  
   
“Nothing ever humbles you,” she mutters, but there’s a fondness to it. “Are you free later today?”  
   
Which is how he ends up following her home after her shift is done, walking beside her as she pushes her bicycle. He regales her with a fascinating story he learned in his art history lesson earlier that week, of the sculptor Rodin’s single-minded pursuit of capturing the likeness of Balzac, but his words trail away as Hiyori’s pace slows in front of a square, unattractive sort of building, with many doors lining its outer walls.  
   
“This is your estate?” he asks.  
   
“It’s… the building where my apartment is,” she says, giving him an odd look as she wheels her bicycle towards a metal rack and fishes a lock out of her bag. “Not everyone has an estate, Tsurugi.”  
   
He knows that, of course. Knows that the working class often live in rather cramped quarters. Still, he’s somewhat unprepared for the reality, when Hiyori invites him inside what seems to be a walk-in closet that she has turned into a makeshift living space. He’s even forced to sit on the  _floor_ , legs folded underneath him as he waits for Hiyori to return from the impossibly tiny kitchen.  
   
He glances around the room. The small bookshelf seems to have no rhyme or reason to its organization, novels with pastel spines and cookbooks all thrown together in haphazard order. A calendar featuring pictures of exotic flowers hangs slightly crooked on the wall. Hand-written recipes with added illustrations are in a stack on the table in front of him.  
   
“You can do it, Hiyori,” chirps the little white bird in a cage on the desk.  
   
He supposes… it’s not really so awful, actually. What’s the word? Cozy. There is a certain warmth present when the space is so confined. Something that is hard to come by in the wide, echoing halls of his mansion.  
   
Hiyori steps into the room balancing a tray of drinks and snacks in her hands; sets it on the table and sits down cross-legged across from him. He pokes at the strange little confections – cookies with a checkerboard pattern – that she’s placed in front of him. Tries one and finds it surprisingly appealing. Hiyori is looking at him thoughtfully, resting her chin on her palm.  
   
“Do you like video games?” she asks.  
   
He tilts his head to the side. “Vid-yo games?” he echoes. “Whatever are those?”  
   
A huff of laughter under her breath. “Yeah, I had a feeling. They’re fun. Want to try?” She jabs her thumb in the direction of an odd little blue box resting on the shelf underneath her television.  
   
It takes him several minutes to understand the manner in which one operates the little men in the vehicle with the “controller” that Hiyori puts in his hands, but he finds it quite entertaining once he has. There is an exhilarating thrill in watching his characters speed around the colourful roads. Fascinating, that a fictional world can provide such a feeling of accomplishment.  
   
“I am the man who stands at the top of being in seventh place,” he declares proudly as their third race ends.  
   
“Yeah, definitely,” Hiyori says, patting him on the arm. “You’re getting the hang of it.” She sees him reach for his glass of rather plain-tasting tea and gives him an apologetic glance. “Ah, sorry that’s all I have to drink. I really thought I still had some Mitsuya Cider, but…”  
   
“Mitsuya Saeda?” He tests the words on his tongue. “Is that the name of a fine Japanese wine brewery? I have never heard of it.”  
   
She stares at him.  
   
“Okay, forget it,” she mutters as she marches him right back out the door a minute later. “I didn’t want to spend any money tonight, but clearly there’s some things you need to experience. We’re going to the convenience store.”  
   
“The convenience store? Oh, I  _have_  heard of those!”  
   
Twilight has fallen outside, and the streetlamps are lit against the purplish dimness. The air is cool, pleasantly crisp without being chilly, and there are rain clouds gathering on the horizon. Hiyori counts out small coins in her palm as they walk.  
   
“There’s this one kind of canned coffee you have to try, too,” she muses.  
   
Tsurugi can feel his eyes widen. “Coffee… in a can? How unique – ”  
   
Someone steps out from the shadows just ahead.  
   
A woman dressed all in black, an elegant mesh veil over her eyes, as if she were in mourning. It’s difficult to make out her features in this low light, but Tsurugi could swear that he’s seen her elsewhere.  
   
“Kusakabe Hiyori,” she says, in a voice that is low and melodic. “Why don’t we have a chat, just the two of us?”  
   
Wariness tightens the corners of Hiyori’s eyes. She draws closer to Tsurugi seemingly without noticing she’s doing so. “…Who are you?” she asks.  
   
“You’ll know soon enough.” A smile is visible beneath the hem of the veil. “Just a little conversation will find you so enlightened. I’m afraid your dear friend here is not welcome, though.”  
   
He feels the presence of the Worms an instant before they are upon him. The next few moments are a chaos of that awful chittering surrounding him from all sides, those long, chitinous fingers gripping his arms, Hiyori’s heart-wrenching scream just beyond, until the Sasword Zecter burrows straight through the cracked pavement beneath his feet, knocking the Worms back through sheer force and finding its way into his hand. Pulse pounding in his ears, he glances around wildly to see Hiyori with her back pressed against the concrete wall, the woman ( _creature_ ) in black advancing on her slow and deliberate, a gloved hand outstretched.  
   
“It’s time for you to realize the truth,” that hypnotic voice says. “Deep down, in some subconscious place, you know of what I speak.”  
   
“Get away from me,” Hiyori says hoarsely, clapping her hands over her ears, and –  
   
Her form begins to change.  
   
Tsurugi can feel the Worms’ disgusting fingers wrapping around his wrists once more, trying to wrench the Sasword Zecter from his fist, but all he can do is stare, the rest of the world muted and distant, as Hiyori’s skin turns smooth and green, as her eyes all but vanish behind a helmet-like face, as laced wings like those of a dragonfly unfurl from her back.  
   
For some reason, in this moment, he remembers roses.  
   
  
   
  
   
He wakes to a sharp slap across the face. Tendou is kneeling over him, with a set to his features that Tsurugi thinks might be worry, or anger, but his head throbs enough to blur his vision and he wonders if he might be mistaken. Tsurugi pushes himself up shakily, palms pressing against the rough pavement, blinking at his surroundings.  
   
“You’re lucky you didn’t crack your head on the way down,” Tendou says. He helps him back to his feet, Tsurugi still too addled to voice the ‘I don’t require your assistance’ that sits on his tongue, and it’s as he sways there that it hits him.  
   
“Hiyori.” Something terrible grips his heart as he stares at Tendou. “Hiyori, she – she was mimicked! I don’t know when. It may have even been before I walked home with her, I…” He presses his hand to his mouth, tasting something bitter and acidic in the back of his throat. Nausea washes over him in a wave. “How long has she been replaced?”  
   
Tendou, strangely enough, seems not to react to this. He simply looks at him, heavy with resignation.  
   
“I suppose,” he says, “that there is no point in lying to you now. Hiyori was never replaced, Tsurugi. She has always been a Worm.”  
   
Tsurugi’s hand, reaching out to grip Tendou’s shoulder to shake some realization into him, stops and falters before he can reach.  
   
“…What?” he says.  
   
And so Tendou explains it. Or tries, at least. The ache along the crown of Tsurugi’s skull only seems to worsen as he listens to Tendou recounting the years-old story of his parents’ death and mimicking, of the strange circumstances of Hiyori’s birth.  
   
“I know that you are very… resolute in your goal to wipe every last Worm from this world. But I hope you will reconsider when it comes to Hiyori. She is innocent in all this, after all.” Something flickers in his eyes that looks very much like a warning. “You are. An ally, of a sort. I would hate to have to change that.”  
   
Tsurugi’s own breathing seems so loud, almost drowning out Tendou’s words.  
   
Hiyori is. Hiyori is. Hiyori is. His thoughts cycle on a dizzying loop.  
   
“And,” Tendou is saying, “there is another part to this story. Something that complicates matters further.” He hesitates, then, which is something Tsurugi has never seen him do. “But I wonder if it’s my secret to tell. Grandmother said this: ‘Some unpleasant things are best unearthed with one’s own hands.’”  
   
The look he gives him is piercing. As sharp as a knife to the ribs.  
   
“I’m going to search for Hiyori,” he continues. “I ask that you not approach her ever again. Regardless of your decision, I feel it would be for the best.”  
   
He looks as if he might be contemplating doing something comforting, like putting a hand on his arm, but thinks better of it at the last second, shaking his head minutely as he turns to walk away.  
   
Tsurugi stands there in the middle of the darkened street and watches him until he’s gone.  
   
  
   
  
   
His supper that night tastes strange. He can detect all the rich, elegant flavors of Jiiya’s cooking, and yet. None of them seem real. A skilled mimicry of the genuine article.  
   
“Jiiya,” he says. “What is it like to die?”  
   
Jiiya freezes; stares at him with wide, startled eyes, very nearly spilling the soup he’s ladling into a crystalline mug.  
   
“Y-Young Master… Why would you ask something so sad?” He kneels next to his chair, his expression stricken. “Did something happen?”  
   
Tsurugi shakes his head. “I guess you wouldn’t know, would you? Since you’re still alive.”  
   
He holds his knife up to the light; stares at his own warped reflection on its polished silver surface and thinks, for a moment, that he sees it warp further still.  
   
“I used to read ghost stories when I was a child, remember? You thought it was very improper for my age, and they always gave me nightmares.” He laughs. “And in them, the people would say, ‘the ghost doesn’t know they’re dead.’ I wonder… if that’s how ghosts actually are.”  
   
Jiiya smiles at him hesitantly. “Oh, Young Master. Have you been reading those types of stories again? Even now I think they’re a bit too much for you.” He pats his hand. “Let me tell you something. I have been here on this Earth for many years. And I have never once met a ghost.”  
   
Tsurugi’s throat feels tight. “I see,” he says, and smiles back. “Thank you, Jiiya.”  
   
  
   
  
   
He goes hunting the next day.  
   
He has no leads, per se. But somehow he can sense it, like a homing beacon – that the man with a hood pulled up over his face who just turned down the nearby alleyway has something other than human bones and blood hiding beneath his skin.  
   
“That’s far enough, Worm,” he says, and the creature turns slow to give him a sneering look. Not even a pretense of innocence.  
   
“Oh, what are you, then? One of those ‘Riders’ I keep hearing about?”  
   
“I am – ” Tsurugi begins, but his voice dies in his throat.  
   
What is he? Whatishewhatishewhatis –  
   
“I am the man who… who will replace the gods with a slash of my sword,” he says, little more than a reflex, his mouth moving mechanically while his brain feels thick with static.  
   
He can feel the Sasword Zecter moving towards him through the earth, towards his outstretched fingers, but he releases his mental tug on it a moment later, letting his hand fall limp to his side. There’s something else sitting like a weight in the pit of his stomach. The Scorpion Worm’s power. He’s always been purposefully keeping it at an arm’s distance, hasn’t he? All those times he felt it bearing down, he was actually desperately pushing it away.  
   
Not wanting to realize that there is no pushing something away, once it’s made a nest inside you.  
   
It unfurls itself from his chest, through his veins and arteries, and he stares down at his hands as they shift and disfigure, his fingertips growing hooked, claw-like appendages, serrated blades unsheathing from the silver plated armor where his forearms just were.  
   
Splintering open the exoskeleton of the Worm in front of him feels very different, from when he sank the same blade into the soft flesh of his sister’s torso. Humans offer so little resistance.  
   
The contrast really is rather stark, he thinks, and hears himself laugh, a wrenched, choked sort of sound, as he twists his blade in deeper and the Worm burns away all around him.  
   
  
   
  
   
The manager at the bistro tells him that Hiyori hasn’t been to work.  
   
“This is three days now she’s called in sick,” she murmurs, pressing a hand to her cheek. “But it seems like something else might be wrong, you know? I’m thinking about going to her place later to see if she needs anything. Or maybe wants to talk.”  
   
“I will go visit her as well,” Tsurugi says.  
   
“Oh, would you? I think she’d like that.”  
   
He gives her a wide smile.  
   
It takes many knocks to convince Hiyori to open the door to her apartment. Even then, the latch remains in place, her pale face peering out through the crack with worry furrowing her brow. There are dark circles under her eyes.  
   
“Tsurugi,” she says, “why are you here?”  
   
“I thought we could take a walk, Hiyorin! You look like you have not seen the sun in several days. That is not healthy, you know.”  
   
Her eyes darken, then, and she seems to make herself smaller, withdrawing a bit from the door. “Tendou told me,” she says softly. “He said not to go anywhere with you anymore. That it was dangerous. That you… that you hate – ”  
   
“Tendou doesn’t know everything, Hiyorin,” Tsurugi pouts. “Didn’t you get angry at him before? For acting as if he has all the answers? We’re  _best friends_ , aren’t we?  
   
Ten seconds of silence tick past, then twenty, and thirty, until finally the door closes and he hears the chain unlatch.  
   
Hiyori does seem to brighten, just a bit, as they stroll to that same hill where he found her sketching, though there is still something deeply subdued about the way she carries herself. A return to how she used to be, Tsurugi thinks.  
   
“I’m… scared,” she admits, as she walks ahead of him, making her way up the incline of the slope. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Like do I even belong here, in this world?”  
   
They reach the top, and both stop to stare out at the patchwork rows of houses and streets that stretch off into the distance.  
   
“You don’t,” Tsurugi says.  
   
She looks at him sharply, a flash of terror widening her eyes as he opens his suit jacket to reveal the belt underneath, sliding the Sasword Zecter in, the word “henshin” seeming to come from someone else’s voice, the armor falling into place around him.  
   
“I swore I would,” he says, leveling the tip of his sword at her neck. Her legs are shaking as she stumbles back, tripping over an exposed root, shoulders hitting the trunk of the old tree and leaving her with nowhere to run. “I swore I’d eliminate every single Worm. My sister… she can’t rest in peace until I do. You understand, don’t you, Hiyorin? I have to.”  
   
“Tsurugi,” she says, more sad than pleading. And then she closes her eyes tight and braces herself for his strike.  
   
His blade wavers there, an inch from her throat.  
   
Just do it. It’s your mission. Just do it justdoitjustdoit kill her right where she stands and the world will be better, and safer, the world will be –  
   
_It’s… kind of fun, actually. Being with you._  
   
_Are you… lonely, maybe?_  
   
(He had been lonely, hadn’t he.)  
   
He’s trembling as he reaches down with an unsteady hand for the Sasword Zecter, pulling it free and feeling his armor fade away. His sword falls to his side. Gradually, warily, her eyes open again, and she stares back at him in disbelief.  
   
“Tendou said that you’re innocent, Hiyorin. He said… you’ve never hurt anyone.” His eyes are hot and stinging, his vision starting to smudge around the edges as he tries to blink it away. “But  _I_  did. I’m just like the rest of them. I killed her. And I killed myself, too. I just didn’t remember.”  
   
Confusion flickers across her face, and then understanding, and then astonishment and horror in turn. “…You? You’re also…?”  
   
“This whole time I’ve been hunting him. But he was right here. How foolish am I?” His cheeks feel wet, now, and his breath keeps hitching, and he tries to smile through it. “If you’re a monster, Hiyorin, then… Then there really are good monsters in the world. I’m glad for that. I wish… I was like that, too.”  
   
He lifts his sword and presses the cold edge against his own throat.  
   
Hiyori takes a small, panicked step forward. “Tsurugi, don’t,” she says sharply. “Just. Put it down, okay? We  _are_  the same. You and me.”  
   
When he shakes his head, she insists, louder this time:  
   
“We are! You say I didn’t hurt anyone but I might as well have! There’s a human girl named Kusakabe Hiyori who should be alive right now with her parents and her brother but instead it’s just me and I’m not – ” She breaks off, swallowing hard. “But it. It all happened before I was me. And – and all of that happened before you were you. O-okay? You aren’t him anymore. You’re Tsurugi now. You’re the real one. You have all his memories, don’t you? All his feelings. Doesn’t that make you real?”  
   
The shape of her blurs together as tears cloud his eyes. The shaking of his hand slices the blade into his skin, blood trickling down into the hollow of his throat. “I don’t know,” he hiccups. “I don’t know.”  
   
“You hate him, and the other Worms, because – because they kill innocent people, right? W-without remorse?” Up close, he can see that she’s crying, too. He can feel a warm hand close around his fingers, forcefully pulling the sword away. “But just now. You couldn’t kill me. So you’re not like that at all.” She stares into his eyes. “Are you?”  
   
The sword slips through his fingers, its blade sinking into the earth with a  _thunk_. His legs feel suddenly, terribly weak beneath him, and Hiyori follows him down when they give out, both of them on their knees in the grass, her hand still holding his with a grip so tight his fingers ache.  
   
“Sometimes,” he says hoarsely. “Sometimes I wake up and don’t remember what I was doing. He – he takes over. I know he does. What if… What if I lose to him? And he hurts someone else again?”  
   
“That won’t happen,” Hiyori says, with an intensity that hits him like a slap in the face. “I won’t let it. I – I’m pretty strong, too, in my other form. So I’ll stop him. And I’ll wake you up.” She sniffles; scrubs at her red-rimmed eyes with the back of her free hand. “I promise.”  
   
“You… promise?”  
   
She nods fiercely. “I still haven’t done it. My own menu, at the bistro. You – you have to be there to try it. Okay? So you promise, too.”  
   
She’s trying very hard to steady her trembling as she holds her hand out, pinkie up.  
   
He knows what that signifies. Though only from reading it in a book once, long ago. No one’s ever made such a promise with him before.  
   
His hand is still shaking, too, as he reaches out to twine his little finger with hers.  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
He frowns thoughtfully at the stack of flyers advertising ‘Hiyorin Lunch’ in his arms, kicking at the yellowed leaves that have fallen as thick as a snowdrift over the sidewalk. Even in such swathes, a few still cling to the trees that line the path in admirable show of resistance against the autumn. Hiyori gives him a sidelong glance, and her voice is slightly muffled from behind her #1 best in the world hand-knitted scarf when she asks:  
   
“What’re you thinking?”  
   
“It’s just. Since your goal is coming true… It makes me feel kind of sad. Restoring the Discabil fortune is vitally important, of course, but. Maybe I should have a goal just my own, too. Something fun and exciting!”  
   
He can’t see her smile, but he can see her expression soften, the dimple of her cheeks visible above her scarf. “That sounds like a good idea.”  
   
“Yes, I’ve decided!” he declares, and grins, hugging the flyers closer to his chest. “I will be the man who stands at the top of having a dream.”


End file.
